“He listens to her, swallowing her words like water.”

            -from The English Patient,  Michael Ondaatje

I was afraid to hear her voice.  This of course is hard for me to comprehend, let alone explain.

 

But I will try . . . 

 

Perhaps it has something to do with all the questions I didn’t ask and all the things she didn’t say.  Those things left unsaid were powerful, filling the space with mystery.  Filling my dreams with magic.  Perhaps by hearing her voice it would have divulged some secret . . . a de-mystification.   

(after hearing her read Denise Levertov's poem "Stepping Westward")

But no!

Her voice . . .

The voice of a singer
In a smoke filled bar, 1927 Paris
Deliberate
But Soft, sensual, a touch of smoke
Piercing my heart
A voice . . .
of pain and redemption
A voice . . .
Of wisdom and action
A voice . . .  
Filled with stars
A voice . . .
I could listen to forever

And somehow a voice I already knew . . .

In my dreams

From her rooftop, Upper West Side, NYC



Her star filled sky - somewhere in the Utah night